


Let Them Be

by NimWallace



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Awesome Greg Lestrade, Caught, Ficlet, Lestrade finds out, Light Angst, M/M, One Shot, POV Greg Lestrade, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Short, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 07:51:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16058762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NimWallace/pseuds/NimWallace
Summary: In which Lestrade is not so terrible a detective.





	Let Them Be

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Позвольте им быть теми, кто они есть](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16242587) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



Lestrade was not a _bad_ detective.   
In fact, he was quite good—and he knew the dramatizations of his incompetence by Doctor Watson were simply to make his friend's talents shine, so he did not mind that so much.   
But the thing about being a _good_ detective is that you see things that you are not supposed to see.   
He often chose not to be looking at the right moment, to gloss over things he'd heard and seen. He'd heard all the rumors, of course, but talk can never be avoided.   
But sometimes the talk is true.

 

 

At first his observations were small, easily dismissed. Holmes's hand would rest a minute too long on Watson's shoulder. They would lock eyes often, as if sharing a secret. When he walked into a room with just the two of them, they would hush their talk quickly.   
But soon, the signs became more and more obvious.   
Their public touches became more scarce until it looked plainly repressed, they hid blushes from each other, they sometimes had a green carnation tucked in a pocket.   
Still, he ignored it. Holmes helped him often—he owed numerous success to him—besides, even though it was _technically_ illegal, they really weren't hurting anyone.   
At first, he was a bit disgusted. After all, the nature of an invert is unnatural. But it was hard to be disgusted with a man like Sherlock Holmes—he demanded respect without saying a word. His genius was an impenetrable fact, and it seemed all of his flaws dimmed his great attributes.   
And if Sherlock Holmes could love a man—well, then it must not be so bad. 

 

Lestrade had grown up the youngest of four brothers—he was often picked on and tossed around as a child. When his brothers grew up, they inherited land and money and started respectable business ventures.   
That had never particularly suited him.   
He could remember running down the cobble stone street, being pursued by his brothers friends—boys much bigger and stronger than him. He could remember thinking, _“I want to be the one chasing_ them _someday.”_  
So began his career in police work.   
Now, he'd been in it for thirty years, and had barely spoken to his brothers since. He felt a sort of freedom about it.   
In his years of criminal detection he'd seen many horrible things—young children curled up in the street as if asleep, women stripped naked and lying cold in a river, men without heads, hands, eyes.   
But the most painful crimes were perhaps the justifiable ones.  
Like the one Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were committing.

 

 

It was just after a case—the first time he was able to doubtlessly catch them.   
He hadn't meant to—they had just caught a man who had been setting fire to the homes of English politicians, and he had mistakenly left his coat in 221b.   
With a sigh, he climbed back up the steps, and, without knocking, opened the door.   
He froze.   
Holmes and Watson yanked apart from each other—though it was clear they'd just shared a kiss, and stared at Lestrade in utter horror.   
“Inspector,” Holmes gasped. “I—I—“   
Lestrade had never once seen the detective at a loss for words.   
“It was me,” Watson cried, his protective instinct kicking in. “It was a mistake, but I was—“   
“Gentlemen, please,” Lestrade said softly. “No need to explain.” Holmes looked at the floor, then met Lestrade's eyes gravely.   
“I do not like begging, Lestrade,” he said quietly. “But if it comes to such—“  
“I already knew,” Lestrade said with a small, hopefully comforting smile. “Even I could tell. I'm not such a bad detective, you know.”   
“You knew?” Watson said in astonishment. “And you didn't—“   
“No,” Lestrade said. “And I don't plan to. You two have done too much for me.”  
The other two men visibly relaxed.   
“Thank you,” Holmes said quietly. “Thank you.”   
“Of course. Just. . .be a bit more careful, or someone else will suspect you.” They both nodded, Watson thanked him again, and he put on his coat.   
“Gentlemen,” he said, tipping his hat.   
He was given all the credit for the arsonist case, and Doctor Watson never did write the truth of it up.   
  
  


 


End file.
